The Difference
by RyeUkitake
Summary: Existing and living are two completely different things, John has come to realize in the three years since Sherlock's death. But what exactly differenciates the two?


Existing was far different than living, John had come to realize in the months that had passed… The thirty-six months, to be exact. That was… one-thousand-ninety-five days, twenty-six-thousand-eighty hours, one-million-five-hundred-seventy-six-thousand-eight-hundred minutes – not that he had been counting – since he had watched his best friend, the most brilliant man in London, fall to his death from the top of that hospital building, taking Dr. Watson's life, proverbially of course, along with his own.

It had been three years now, to the day. John had spent three excruciating, Sherlock Holmes free years biding his time, taking no pleasure from being alive, staying so only because he hadn't the gumption to take his life… he ate, but didn't taste; he slept, but didn't dream; and, as the world's only consulting detective had often told him, he saw, but he didn't observe. He was a zombie in all but name, a shell of the John Watson the world had once known.

He'd awoken that morning with the sun, but did little to show it. He stared at the ceiling, watching the morning rays spreading themselves cheerfully across the shabby tiles, and illuminating the abysmal atmosphere that he had felt so comfortable in lately. Rather annoying, the sun was, taking his only solace, the darkness, away from him.

Did the birds need to chirp so loudly outside of his window? Their song, almost mechanical in nature, mocked his sorrow, and he had the urge to throw something. Sadly, there was nothing within his reach. But wait… that sound wasn't like that of any bird he'd heard before… He blinked several times, before he realized that was because it was his mobile, not a bird at all.

With a reluctant groan, he rolled over and plucked the phone from its perch beside his bed, and slid the keyboard down, opening the text that had been calling so persistently. The white letters on the screen made no sense to him at first, and made even less each time he read them… What he was reading wasn't possible, though he may have wanted to believe it was. But no… There was no such thing as ghosts, and even if there were, they certainly couldn't ring his mobile.

I APOLOGIZE FOR THE EARLY HOUR, BUT COME TO BAKER ST. IF  
>CONVENIENT. –SH<p>

As John stared at the impossible sentence, a second message came through, interrupting his confusion.

COME EVEN IF NOT CONVENIENT –SH

Dr. Watson almost laughed at the absurdity, at the casual nature of the text… almost. If he hadn't been so outraged, the chuckle may have gotten the better of him, but there were other things to worry about at this particular moment.

WHO THE HELL IS THIS AND WHY ARE YOU  
>IMPERSONATING SHERLOCK?<p>

It was lost on John that this was the first thing akin to emotion, the first semblance of motivation that he'd felt in a very long time. He was far to busy preparing to give a piece of his mind, and more than likely, a piece of his fist to the bastard that thought pretending to be Sherlock Holmes was a good idea in John's presence… even if it was just his virtual presence. As he pulled himself from bed, and chose an outfit from his closet, another message came through:

JOHN, IT'S ME. I'M NOT DEAD. –SH

John's eye twitched. Whoever was texting him was certainly a sick individual, leaving his stomach more than a little bit ill. He pictured his friend, lying motionless, un-breathing against the concrete, a trail of dark crimson dripping from his hairline, down his temple. He remembered falling to his knees and desperately searching for a pulse on Sherlock's wrist, finding none.

"_Oh God, no," _He'd stammered, the ringing in his ears threatening to overtake him… He cringed at the memory, his heart breaking as he did so. It was some time after the fall when John realized why Sherlock's death was so much harder on him than the deaths of his comrades in the war… John's feelings for his deceased partner were far stronger than those of friendship. But by the time the conclusion came to him, it was already much too late. With shaking fingers, he formulated a reply.

I WATCHED SHELOCK HOLMES DIE. I SAW  
>HIS DEAD BODY WITH MY OWN EYES, FELT<br>IT WITH MY OWN HANDS. NOW WHO THE  
>HELL IS THIS?<p>

John ran from his flat, and out into the street, hailing the first cab that he saw. As he climbed into the back of the car, his phone sounded again. He slumped against the seats, and while pulling his mobile from his pocket, muttered his destination to the cabby.

"221B Baker Street, please," and the driver sped off in the direction of his former home, while he stewed over the newest message in his inbox.

JOHN, YOU DON'T HAVE TO BELIEVE ME,  
>JUST COME. PLEASE. –SH<p>

It felt almost surreal, walking through the door, and up the stairs of his old flat at 221B Baker Street, he almost expected to see his late friend lying on the couch, nicotine patches on his arms, breathing heavily trying to deduce one detail or another for a case, or him sitting in the chair in the center of the room, speaking to no one in particular, sipping a cup of tea made my Mrs. Hudson.

He braced himself as he rested his hand on the doorknob to the little room he and Sherlock had once shared, balled fist at the ready, prepared to hurt whoever was on the other side.

Now, as an army doctor, John Watson had seen a lot of things in his time, and not a lot had the power surprise him anymore. But when he turned the knob, he was certainly not prepared for what was waiting on the other side.

"Hello, John," The man said, unkempt curls falling in his eyes, and a dark grey trench coat hugging his frame. His lips were pursed, and his haunting eyes were staring at the doctor, with some unreadable emotion swirling inside them. John was wrong about one thing… Sherlock wasn't lying on the couch, or sitting in the chair… He was standing in an unoccupied space of the living room, watching him in only a way that Sherlock could watch someone.

"What… what… I don't understand," John sputtered.

"That doesn't surprise me; I didn't expect much from your limited capacity. But whether you understand it or not, here I am. It's good to see you again," Sherlock stated, in a way that indicated he hadn't changed one bit since he… died. That was where this stopped making sense. He should have changed over the last three years, even if it was just the decomposition of his skin, or his ability to breathe. But here he was in the flesh… the smooth and, well, living flesh.

"You… you were dead on that sidewalk," he choked

"I was, yet I'm standing here in front of you. Tea?" He asked, turning his body towards the kitchen, but keeping his gaze on his friend. He couldn't think of a single word he could say that would prompt Sherlock to give him a straight answer. Instead of trying, he bridged the gap between them in two small steps, and flung himself against the chest of the taller man.

There was warmth emanating from beneath his suit jacket, and a heart beat beneath his ribcage, both clear signs of life. A pair of strong arms came around him, a head rested on top of his own, and the two men stood entwined in silence for several moments, John trying to pretend there weren't tears welling in his eyes.

"Where did you go?" John whispered, gripping the back of Sherlock's woollen coat, and showing no signs of letting go.

"Where I went isn't important. What's important is where I am now, and where I am now is here. I did tell you that I loved you, and I'd come back for you."

John pulled away for a moment, and cocked an eyebrow up at his un-dead friend.

"You what?"

"You heard me," the detective replied flatly.

"When was that, then?" John asked, too wrapped up in his emotions to really notice the words he was being told.

"About a year ago," Sherlock told him, resting a hand on his shoulder. John gave the taller man a look that insinuated he'd lost his mind.

"Sherlock, you've been gone for three years,"

"Well, it's not my fault you weren't listening," Holmes shrugged, keeping his eyes on the doctor. John was about to argue, thinking this was just like old times, when that one four letter word finally struck him.

"Did… did you just say you loved me?" he asked cautiously, thinking he must have been in shock to have heard something so insane… so unlike Sherlock Holmes.

"I did, yes."

"Sherlock, you don't even know what love is," John laughed in the manner of a man that was on the verge of losing his mind. How could he say something like that, to get John's hopes up, when he didn't even understand the feelings he was claiming to have for the other man.

"John, don't be stupid. Love may be a chemical defect, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of expressing it. I am human," He insisted.

"Some would beg to differ," John muttered, and while the words didn't go unheard by Sherlock, they certainly went unaddressed.

"The chemistry of attraction is extremely simple; one would have to be an idiot to not understand it. I could see it in myself even more easily than I saw it in Irene Adler, just as I could see it in you in the months before I…" He cleared his throat awkwardly, the proceeding word not needing to be uttered. "Then I found my self missing you every day I was gone… Wondering if you were keeping yourself healthy, who you were seeing, what you were doing. And then one night it struck me; this caring was far more than animal attraction, far more than friendship. There was simply no way around this deduction. So, as soon as I could manage, I came back here to inform you of my findings in case you hadn't been fully aware of them yourself."

"Amazing…" Dr. Watson whispered, and Sherlock smiled and nodded once.

"Now, if I'm not mistaken, mutual attraction leads to physical expression of that attraction. Unfortunately this is one area that I'm not an expert in, so I'm going to be relying on you a great deal. Come here," he said, holding his arms out to the doctor, who complied and filled the space between those appendages. He looked up at the brilliant man, whose lips were no more than an inch from his own now and, resting one palm on one of Sherlock's cheeks, John brought their mouths together softly, feeling the velvety smoothness of Holmes' lips against his, and caressing them gently in reciprocation of Watson's kiss. It was a sensation as brilliant as one of the detective's deductions, and John couldn't help but smile against the contact.

As they broke apart, Sherlock nodded, as if considering the ramifications of what had just transpired.

"Your cheeks are red, and there's sweat above your brow. I felt your heart rate increase, and your pupils are dilated. You enjoyed that, as did I, because I can tell from your expression that you're wondering. And that smile across your lips, just a small one, tells me you have something trivial to say to me, go ahead."

John just laughed. There was no way he could stop himself, now.

"You're unnatural, Sherlock Holmes. Just completely unnatural," he shrugged, at a loss for anything else to say. John had been right; existing was something completely different than living, and the man in front of him now, who had just given his first kiss away, and was now analyzing it to death, somehow was the difference between the two.

Sherlock smiled at him, his usual Sherlock smile.

"Thank you. Tea?"


End file.
